June Bug (12 page)

11

Johnson rolled into Bentonville, Arkansas, in the afternoon and ordered the biggest platter of fish and shrimp he could at Long John Silver’s. His back was so stiff he couldn’t think about sitting down to eat, so he pulled into a regional park and walked through it, thinking of June Bug and Sheila as he crunched the clam strips and fried cod. At some restaurants it didn’t make sense that they put all those napkins in the sack, but this was so greasy he used one for every piece of fish.

At the top of a knoll was a pair of tennis courts, and he leaned against a flagpole near a veterans’ memorial and watched a teenage boy trying to teach a teenage girl how to play. The girl wore a cheerleader’s dress and shoes that made white marks on the court. It was clear why the boy was teaching her, though probably not to the girl. He’d hit to her backhand repeatedly and she’d swing and miss, and then the boy would watch her walk to the fence, staring as she bent over to retrieve the ball.

Over the hill was a Little League field and two teams were at it, though from the sounds of the parents yelling and clapping this was more like the seventh game of the World Series. He dumped the box of spent tartar and cocktail sauce holders as wasps swarmed over the empty cans of Coke and Sprite piled high.

He stretched out on the side of a hill by an oak tree that looked like it had been there since before the Civil War and watched the game. The right fielder for the home team seemed more interested in the dandelions. The kid at bat, #14, swung at three consecutive pitches, not even coming close, and Johnson’s childhood fears flooded back. Playground picks and squabbles over captains and who would pitch. He’d never played organized ball until his uncle signed him up for a team when he was ten. He wore his uniform to school the day after he received it and the other kids laughed.

“I think it’s a wonderful uniform,” his teacher said, taking him aside after class had begun. Miss Bailey spoke softly, and he could smell the sweet mints she kept in her desk’s top drawer. Seeing her red lipstick so close nearly took his breath away.

The truth was, he had worn the uniform to impress her. She was soft and sweet and curvy like the women on TV shows, and she smelled like a bouquet of flowers. But the draw was her eyes and that smile, and he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to have a mother like her. Someone to read him a story at night and tuck him in bed and sing—her voice was like an angel’s—and she could play the piano and knew more about math and science and writing and social studies than all his other teachers combined.

“I’ll bet you’re going to be a big leaguer someday,” she said softly in his ear, and a tingle spread through his body.

Those words had made the mocking bearable, and that day he decided he would become a teacher. If a sentence or two from Miss Bailey could do this to his heart, he was in. He walked home proudly, shunning the bus and the teasing of the high schoolers that was sure to come. That was a good memory from his elementary school years.

However, Miss Bailey’s comment about his baseball career had not been prophetic. During his first game, he stepped to the plate against a mean kid from the next town who recognized him and called his catcher out for a meeting. They spoke quietly through gloves held to their faces. A round canister showed clearly through the seat of the pitcher’s back pocket, and there was a bump on the kid’s lower lip. The laws of children and nature sometimes take a backseat in the West Virginia hills.

The umpire scraped some dirt off home plate as the catcher returned. The kid held his mask at his side and got close enough for John to hear. “Tom says your mama’s a whore lady. He says she works out at the truck stop.”

The catcher smiled and showed the gap between his top front teeth, two of which seemed to be growing in opposite directions. He fit the mask on and gave the pitcher a thumbs-up. The umpire took his position and waved at John to step into the batter’s box, then pointed at the pitcher.

The first pitch was high and tight, and John tried ducking but lost his balance and sat in the dirt.

The pitcher laughed and so did a few parents from the opposing team. A couple players from his team clapped and told him to “hang in there.”

He heard the deep voice of his uncle encouraging him. “Stay in there, John. Knock it out.”

The ball hit the metal fence behind him and rolled to within a couple feet of home plate. The catcher had chased it and ambled toward him.

John picked up the ball and placed it in the kid’s mitt. “Tell Tom to watch himself.”

The catcher tried to act tough and shake off the threat, but there’s something in the eyes of prey that gives away fear and John sensed it.

“Put another one in there, Tom!” a man with stringy hair shouted. John guessed from the resemblance that it was Tom’s father. He was at the edge of the dugout sipping something jammed into a holder that said
Drink Coke.
“Let’s see what you got!”

Tom overthrew the next pitch outside and in the dirt, and it skipped to the backstop again. John swung a few times, staring at the pitcher with the hint of a smile. The kid walked off the mound and spit, then took the throw from his catcher. He stared in at the sign, his right arm dangling. His form was first-rate, not herky-jerky. Fluid and smooth. He grooved the 2-0 fastball down the middle, and John saw the stitches and swung, connecting with the resounding ping of the metal bat. He put his head down and ran to first, stealing a glance at the left fielder, who stood at the fence with his back to the field.

There was a smattering of applause behind him, and when he hit first base, he took an immediate left and ran toward the pitcher’s mound. Tom was staring at the still-rolling ball and some kids chasing it past the concessions stand. John put his helmet into the back of the pitcher and drove him hard into the infield dirt. The air came out of the kid’s lungs, and John drove him face-first into the hard ground. There was yelling after that and a catcher’s mask on John’s back, then a couple of coaches pulling him off and his uncle dragging him away.

John didn’t get to touch home plate and didn’t play another inning. He was kicked out of the league.

His uncle didn’t speak until they got into his truck. “You want to tell me what that was about? I paid a lot of money for you to play baseball, not big-time wrestling.”

John sat silent.

“That was a great hit. Actually two great hits. One on the ball and one on the pitcher. Unfortunately you’re not playing linebacker.” He started the truck and put it in gear, then held his foot on the brake. “Did that catcher say something to you?”

John nodded.

His uncle sat for another moment, rolling something in his mind. He opened his mouth to speak; then he must have thought better of it because he just drove off.

People said the rage was understandable. The next Monday he heard the titters and whispers of kids and the more hurtful words of teachers who cast a wary eye at him on the playground. When Miss Bailey saw his eye and the scrapes on his cheek and the deep gash on his arm, she asked what had happened.

“Baseball game,” he said.

“This needs to be looked at right away. Come with me.”

She took him to the school nurse, who wasn’t there yet. Miss Bailey swabbed hydrogen peroxide on the cuts that were turning a dark yellow. The liquid bubbled and stung, but he didn’t let on that it hurt.

“There’re still some little pebbles or something under the skin, John. Didn’t anybody look at this at the game?”

“They didn’t really have a chance to,” he said. “I got in a fight with another kid.”

She was kneeling in front of him. “What happened?”

At that moment he knew he had a choice: to open up and tell her what was going on or to keep it inside. Maybe it was the perfume. Maybe it was how warm he felt being touched by someone so beautiful who seemed to care. Maybe it was the dam in his heart that had backed up a wall of emotion that had cracked. Whatever the reason, he spilled the whole thing in a choking, gasping effort that both scared and humiliated him.

Except she was crying too.

She listened to the whole thing. The feelings the boys brought up, what they said about his mother. The fact was, he hadn’t seen his mother in more than a week, and then she was drunk. And his father had worked midnights over the weekend, which meant he slept most of the day. John had eaten alone, except for the hot dog and ice cream he ate at Dairy Queen with his uncle, and he’d waded through the dirty clothes to find something to wear to school. He had thrown his bloody uniform in the trash after the game.

The more he talked, the more she cried, and it felt good to have someone listen—really listen—as he told her about the way the ball flew off the bat and how good it felt to drive that kid into the ground and watch him get dirt and rocks in his mouth to mix with the pinch between his cheek and gum.

When John was done spewing the disconnected stories, he saw something else in her eyes. Something akin to a loving revulsion. Pity mixed with horror. He had said too much. He had let her inside to see what was really there. Though Miss Bailey had compassion, it seemed to him like she was treating a wounded snake. No matter how much she helped, he was still going to have to slither off into his hole.

At that point he stopped talking, stopped looking at Miss Bailey as someone who would listen, and began the damming process again. He learned he needed to hold on to the feelings. Though others—his uncle and a few teachers and coaches—tried to break through, John kept himself in check. He steeled himself against the pain of having an absent father and a mother who floated in and out of his life.

When high school rolled around, John became known as one of the most fierce linebackers in the state. It felt good to drag his opponents to the ground. It felt good to feel anything. But when the game was over, he went back to his template, keeping things pushed down and controlled.

Several girls had been interested. And he was certainly interested. But something kept him from commitment. Something kept him from opening up, and sooner or later, they would get tired of the strong, silent routine and move on.

After high school, when a few colleges offered scholarships, John went to his uncle. He didn’t have the grades for college, mainly because he hadn’t applied himself. His uncle encouraged him to give it a try, but John felt it a waste of time. His uncle suggested the military, which made perfect sense. It was there, in preparation for battle, that John finally found himself, his calling. Things clicked and he put his mind and body to work. His physical talents shone, and his superiors recognized his abilities. Again, he stepped into the challenge of the SEALs, going through the rigorous training, the mind-bending assaults on his body to bring it into subjection, to take him places he’d never been before and prepare him for places he hoped he would never have to go again.

Now, under the oak tree, he looked out over the mass of uniformed young boys and saw himself in right field. Saw himself rounding first and slamming the pitcher to the ground. Saw the parents in the stands and in folding lawn chairs cheering and remembered the loss of never having his mother or father watch him. Whether it was the closeness he saw there or the empty feeling of loss or the growing feeling that something drastic was about to change his life, John began to tear up. A wave of emotion hit him, and he lay back in the grass and let it come, tears flowing, eyes stinging. There was plenty in his life to weep for. Plenty in his life that would have felled a lesser man.

He lay there a few minutes, listening to the game’s end—the high fives, the squeals of younger brothers and sisters at the playground, the plastic wrappers coming off fruit snacks, and empty Gatorade bottles tossed in trash cans.

Johnson glanced at the concessions stand beyond the left field fence and saw a young girl in an outfit just like June Bug’s. He’d bought it for her at Walmart in late spring. In fact, the way the girl moved away from the stand toward the parking lot reminded him of her, her hair bouncing when she ran. She skipped when she was in a hurry, putting her left arm out and hopping along. The girl disappeared behind a playground wall. He was really losing it if he thought he was seeing June Bug.

He checked his watch and stood, walking to the parking lot with parents and siblings of sweaty players. A kid with #14 passed him and John couldn’t hold back. “Nice swings out there, 14,” he said.

The kid looked at him, thick glasses, red lips from the Gatorade, and he flashed a smile. “I didn’t hit anything.”

“Yeah, but when you do, it’ll go for a mile. Keep swinging.”

The kid’s father put a hand on his son’s shoulder, and the two walked away.

John watched them climb into their Prius and drive off. Then he fired up the RV and found the intersection from memory. It was a rural farming region without the nice backyards and wooden fences of the suburbs. The road dipped, and there were willow trees growing on either side of the little red house with the short driveway and the porch swing.

He parked in the gravel next to the mailbox and stared at the For Rent sign in front. It was nearing dinnertime with the sun still high in the sky. He swatted at a few mosquitoes as he walked to the front door. It was muggy, and there was a creek nearby that had eaten away at the bank and standing water in a little cow pond beside the house. He knocked on the door and waited.